


Where Winds Took Me

by avaloncat555



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Snedronningen | The Snow Queen - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Introspection, Lesbian Character, Magical Realism, Pining, Post-Canon, Sort Of, World Travel, when protagonist doesn't want to admit she has heart of gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avaloncat555/pseuds/avaloncat555
Summary: Things like that, they didn't happen to girls like her.They happened to girls who were kind and gentle and sweet and selfless, girls who were troubled and used and dreamed of something else, and were beautiful and wise and courageous. She was a plain chip of girl, with nasty streak mile wide, less smart and wise or even cunning and more of a good liar, and she was needy yet not wanting, a spiteful and grumbling thing that liked to cut and scare and was nevertheless thoughtlessly content with her life, more prickly and less likely to pass for hero than a hedgehog.But then Gerda burst in her life, and what choice did she have but to chase down stories and find her way in?
Relationships: Gerda/Røverpige | Robber Girl
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: Once Upon a Fic 2020





	Where Winds Took Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nelja-in-English (Nelja)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/gifts).



> First off, thank you, Nelja-In-English, for fun requests and thanks to whoever got mine. This is really fun exchange and I love it so much.  
> Second, I have to thank you, because this is first thing I wrote this year, for I have been consumed with my university and all this situation, thus I was left with no free time at all. This exchange gave me something to look forward to and such interesting prompts.  
> I tried to do this story justice, as I love robber girl and Gerda so much. I hope you like it, even if it doesn't have much of plot and kinda wanders. If you don't I am sorry, thank you all for reading.  
> Stories should all be recognizable, but just in case, in Koschei's section there is one minor shoutout to the Deathless by C. Valentine, and before that two small mentions of other fairytales with robbers.

This is not a fairy tale, not exactly.

Fairy tales are very nice, good stories, but they are exact and simple too. This is not meant to be taken as a criticism, or fault of theirs. They have to be such, after all, given who their primary audience is. A story must attain the interest of an audience, and no amount of ethical dilemmas or subtle foreshadowing will make a fairy tale good if it does not entertain children.

They have a beginning, as clear and pure as a drop of dew, and an ending, as clean and perfect as a severed thread. There is no doubt, no mystery, no confusion. For life and fate unfold following patterns that cannot be denied or avoided, that offer no hesitation or mistakes. Whatever wrongdoing is done, there is immediate and obvious action taken, whether it is punishment for being rude to beggar, or a further trial to rid a hero of their naivety. The roles are all defined, and all will get their just deserts, and there is nothing before _once upon a time_ or _after happily ever after._

Well, we aren't being fair, are we? After all, fairy tales are so much more. And nothing can be so strictly defined, so neatly explained. Always there are exceptions, often more exceptions than standards, it seems. Yet, still, this isn't a fairy tale, to the great pleasure of it' s protagonist.

It is an adventure.

* * *

The first reason why this isn't a fairy tale is because it doesn't begin with either tragedy or drama.

Now, to be clear, that doesn't mean bad things don't happen, or that our protagonist is happy with her life. What matters, however, is a person's perception of those things, and how it affects them and their life. It isn't enough that windows are fragile, the roof leaks, and the wind is cold, there must be a stone thrown through the glass. The pain that leaves them both frozen and changes them forevermore, the event that shakes them down to the very core of their identity, that breaks them and mars their life forever, from which all other further sorrows and joys flow.

Children of a woodsman and his poor wife, grown from infanthood at edge of the woods alone, without grandparents or teachers or friends, in a time of famine, are not enough for fairy tale to start.

Those same children, abandoned in forest, to shadows and whatever dwells between the trees, tracing their path back home by crumbs? Yes, that is where a fairytale starts. That is when the path claims you. Blood that must be spilled and justice that shall not be denied.)

The girl we are to follow, she didn't grow up easy. That didn't mean she wasn't happy. Cranky, grumpy, and complaining all the while. Annoyed, perhaps even a touch bitter, but not unhappy. Perhaps mulling over the things she couldn't have, that life had deprived her of, wasn't in her nature. Or perhaps she has simply decided that she will make the best of what she has (and not be bothered by various problems, for she will be the problem to everybody else), but who can know. Certainly not our robber girl, who had never had the time or the patience for great introspection and musings of the nature of things, which to her was far too similar to doubt.

All in all, there she was, living the life that she was content with. For if it wasn't the best in the world, she had food and a roof and warmth and fun and family enough to be content. She desired nothing more. She never considered being welcomed and swept up into a story, and if you offered her, she would have refused, assuming she believed you at all. A fish in tiny pond had no reason to dream of a river that splits the continent in two.

And yet, tales don't care about such things.

* * *

She was foolish to think she could go on as if nothing happened.

It is rare for life to be changed by such a subtle yet dynamic event. That the catalyst should arrive so obvious and unavoidable, like comet streaking through sky or an avalanche unleashed upon helpless village. That in span of maybe a week, all you knew and all you had taken yourself for could be wrecked. But it happens.

Gerda had arrived, and the little robber girl had mistaken her for a princess, and would have done the same even if she’d had no shoes upon her feet, even if she was dressed in nothing but the barest rags. She wasn't great beauty, not to others at least. She had a plain and boring face, and was, as girl's mother so eloquently put it ''as fat as if she had been fed nothing but chestnuts'' and her hair was not even the lovely golden locks of the princesses and bar wenches in tales that always attracted (often unwanted) attention, but was instead a true mess of dirty, strawlike strands that seemed like crossover between a bird's nest and a skunk's idea of fashionable curls. And yet...

And yet, moment little robber girl saw her, she knew she was done for. There was no use trying to deny it. Not with how her heart started beating, how her cheeks turned so hot you could make an omelet on them, how her breath grew short and disbelieving. How something as fast and furious as lighting possessed her brain, and the only thing she knew was that she wanted to know this girl, learn her name, and be next to her. Before she registered what she was doing, her teeth sank in the (surprisingly soft) flesh of her mother's ear. She even drew blood, and was surprised that it tasted pretty much the same as her own did, instead of being bitter as coffee with pepper in it.

It wasn't just down to looks. As she would often brag in her golden years, she had amazing intuition. She had sensed it from the very beginning, what sort of person Gerda was (it felt so cheesy, to speak of inner beauty, but then, Gerda could make the most pathetic phrases glorious in reality). Gerda was a girl who felt sympathy for pigeons and foxes, almost wept for them in their imprisonment, and was brave enough to look the little robber girl in the eye and tell her that those animals deserved their freedom. That robber girl didn't even have the decency to make sure the rope didn't cut into their throats, or that their food was nutritious enough. That in holding them she was just endangering herself, for they were feral things who would bite back moment they had a chance.

Not even the threat of a knife could dissuade her (and the little robber girl wielded her knife with pride and skill, for it was a terrible, flashing thing all on it's own, and thrice as much as in her hand). A girl who believed in power of eternal friendship. A girl who walked over the whole country, to the land of eternal snow, biting wind and polar nights, all for sake of a single friend.

How could she not fall in love?

It was foolish, her mother would tell her, and so would any fool working under her (for they were all idiots, even the ones she liked, which was why mother took them in- the idiots were easier to manage than someone tricky and skilled enough to replace their superior, which the old woman knew well from her own experience). She could be very, very certain that Gerda's grandmothers and church would tell _her_ too. Getting feelings for your captive was a pathetic, rookie mistake. It ended in you marrying your prisoner, who then proceeded to fawn and coddle you until you lowered your defenses so she could escape, fake her death, and get back to her vengeful family who would take pitchforks and sickles and grandpa's old shotguns to hunt you down while the police conveniently looked in the other direction until it was time to carry off the wounded survivors to prison.

(She had heard stories, from her mother's rivals/sometimes allies. Those who had fled from Rustaya's countryside and still spoke with fear and toothless vengeance about the captured maidens who had ruined the robbers who had thought to harm them. About Alynoushka, who had brought a robber to his brethren in four sacks, who had fled them and let out not a sound when a knife dug into her knee, and had had them all chained and killed, even her fool of a husband who had once begged his crew to spare her life. Or the grim girl who had outsmarted her bridegroom with the severed finger of his previous victim and nasty fate she delivered to his crew…)

It would be stupid if Gerda fell in love with her, too. She had heard other stories too, ones where the captive truly learned to love their captor, if only for the chains to be loosened so that the joints didn't ache, and for the sake of better food (which once seemed cowardly and pathetic to the little robber girl, but then she had never known true hunger, or been at another's mercy). And Gerda wasn't stupid She would never drive herself so desperate, nor lower her pride to be content with treatment that was beneath her, or any human at all.

And... she had considered it, even. Only for a moment, yes, but still. She had listened to Gerda. Gerda, who talked about her quest and her insane, brave, foolish, admirable quest to face Snow Queen She talked about the things she had seen and thee things she had been put through. And she talked about Kai. She talked about their friendship and how much she missed him. In that terrible, beautiful voice dripping with sincerity as pure as the snowmelt upon the mountain peaks, and raw love, and faith so strong that it almost scorched the flesh from the robber girl's bones. Almost made her offer her own blade and gun for sake of Gerda’s quest. Almost made her believe that boy was worth it all.

Enough to make her weep.

She would like somebody to love her like that, she realized. And perhaps she could have it. Perhaps she could lie, or at least twist and bend truth until it breaks, to convince Gerda to stay with her. Until the spring at least (for it would be hard for a single girl to survive the polar winter, especially since the Snow Queen would be at her strongest then). And while Gerda remained warm and safe(r) at their hideout, the little robber girl would play with her and give her gifts. She would shower her affection upon Gerda with the strength of the sea wearing away at a cliff until Gerda gave up and realized the boy was lost all together and she could live the rest of her life together with the robber girl, who would keep her safe from everybody, even her own mother. And if there was no other choice she would be one to kill her. She would do it quickly and painlessly-

No. No, she couldn't do it, because it was wrong and it was not love and Gerda would curse her with her dying breath. And because this is Gerda, the world would hear and magic would obey and ants and squirrels and rabbits and moles and wolves would crawl out of their barrows and dens to tear the flesh from the robber girl's bones. And she would have deserved it, just like that highwayman with weird beard (who even mother got the creeps from) that bought himself the title of a baron and seven wives until last one put him in the ground.

So she let her go, because she... liked her. A lot. Maybe far too much, given how little time they had known each other (but, ah, the first inkling of such feelings, whether a grand love or a simple crush, always cut deepest- something used only to frost and frigid stone doesn't know how to deal with either matchsticks or forest fires), but she would rather tear out her own eyes than see Gerda wither and wane in captivity. Though if she had to bet, she would put her money on Gerda finding some unpredictable way out and getting them all punished in day. She seemed like that sort of girl. The ones who couldn't be broken by anything in life. The ones who could stared down monsters and sorcerers and convinced birds to peck out their eyes.

And she did it because it was good and the right thing to do. It wasn't lawful or correct, like those stupid rules in towns saying you can't eat with a hat on your head. It was good in way the sun was bright, in the way her blood was red- there was no justification in doing otherwise, when you were in position to help. And sure, maybe it was stupid. Maybe it would have been better for her if she didn't act rashly and provoke mother, but what did it matter if she brought such harm on another person, that they died wishing to watch her bones melt from inside out, and it would have been justice?

And besides, Gerda believed in good. She believed in being good and doing good things and in _her_ , the little obstinate brat that was a calamity unto her own home and worse for everybody else, being good. And the little robber girl couldn't live with herself if she disappointed Gerda. Not keeping her chained up like animal was very much the minimum of common decency, and if the only thing she got out of it was Gerda occasionally remembering her as a little less crooked and threatening than her fellow robbers, well...

Everything else would be a privilege undeserved.

And so she let her go, and watched in wonder and fear. Her heart slamming upon her ribcage like sledgehammer. Her cheeks so burning they were probably as red as apples. She tried not to melt or faint as Gerda smiled and hugged her and kissed her upon cheek (she didn't wash it for a week). And then she watched as Gerda strode up to a reindeer, chatting to it (him, and Bae, she said) as if to an old friend, and it _knelt_ so she could sit on it, without saddle or reins, just her fingers grasping on matted fur. The little robber girl barely had time to throw her muff and gloves back before she went off like comet shooting through sky, riding upon it as savagely as shieldmaidens and Valkyries, as fierce and strange as any witch, and more powerful and glorious than any queen. Riding far away, until she was a spot on horizon and then the darkness became too thick and Gerda faded away in night.

It was still beautiful. Like leaves in autumn, or a sunset.

* * *

She was an absolute idiot, the likes of which had been unseen since the making of the world. Only a complete fool would dare to believe that they could forget, that they could go on as if they were unchanged and unhaunted by the memory of such a meeting. As if a creature raised in the tundra that knew only scraggly roots and unforgiving snow could ever forget meadows full of wildflowers.

She couldn't stop thinking of it, of the week she had spent with Gerda, and nothing else mattered. Not her mother's bafflement and disappointment, not the quick cover story they made for Gerda's disappearance (too much risk, a dagger to throat and a grave in woods, and nobody would seek it out, because they had that much shame and honor left) and how their band took it, not the tension and mutterings that followed. She had no time for such minor, meaningless worries, when a new and terrible and magnificent anxiety had overtaken her, settling in her stomach like boiling oil, rattling her bones and making her feel as if it was only question of time before she leapt out of her own skin.

A great and strange restlessness had overtaken her like a scarlet fever, allowing her no respite in either her dreams or waking hours. She could no more rid herself of it than she could get a smell of cigars out of her clothes, for though she had not smoked herself, so many around her did that smoke and it's scent were permanently embedded in her clothes, sinking through the threads into her skin. She moved through her home and forest like a crab walking in a shell to small. The food she knew and loved her whole life tasted like paper, and everybody, from the young newcomer she liked to threaten with a cut throat in his sleep because he rolled eyes at her, to her mother who would slap her men if she thought they failed her and then doubled their loot as an apology when it turned out she was wrong, seemed to her like a chain made of rusted iron, the constrictions fashioned out of worn leather. Long into the night she remained awake, twisting and turning and thinking as she never did before, and in sunlit hours she was silent and withdrawn, hanging in corners like a ghost and staring at beyond the horizon.

Meeting Gerda, seeing her, speaking with her, hearing her story, had changed her world. The little robber girl was something small and shrewd and scrawny, used to snow and shadows, that saw a brilliant blood red rose in full bloom for first time. And then Gerda was gone and she was left with memories, left to remember her laughter and recall the stories she told her, and it was like watching a rose get plucked and then raise your head to see a whole giant meadow full of all sorts of herbs and fruits and bushes and flowers in front of you.

And so she thought of ravens who could speak and be advisors, and dreams that would dance in the hallways. And she thought of flowers that knew stories, and old woman who knew how to conjure spring all year long and pull out memories. And she thought of palaces and cities, and how man may change from a brother in all but blood to a bully in way that could only be called magic, and she thought of strangers who could become friends. And she thought of a river that demanded offerings, and of the Queen who reigned supreme over snow and polar lands and the north wind and the cruelest season and ice bees and white death. And at first the memories were enough, for starved man will satisfy himself with whatever morsel he find.

And yet, soon the wanderlust flowed thick and hot through her veins, until she felt like mole given ability to see, like a worm that had spent it's whole life in narrow tunnels beneath the dust, and through a miracle of divine favor was allowed to rise and see the wide sky glimmering with stars, like a diamond set into a dark and thick velvet, granted knowledge of how big and beautiful and strange world was,. How many roads there were to walk? How many stories to hear? How many people to meet and open her eyes, or (maybe, if she proves impressive and worthy enough) have them opened by her? Or she could remain here, where nothing really changes, rotting in a stale puddle instead of exploring the ocean.

Well, she hasn't changed so much that she can't choose what is good for her. She packs enough food that neither she nor the band will go hungry, takes good clothing and better weapons. After few weeks of preparation she goes away when everyone is too drunk to notice, leaving a note explaining how she is off to find her fortune, because there is no place for her to gain infamy and profit here.

She doesn't look back to see if they chased her down to take her back, but by that point she is already in village.

* * *

Of all her later accomplishments, perhaps second most impressive and noteworthy was that she didn't give up after three days.

Travelling the world without clear destination was troubling and hard on its own, even when you weren't a lonely girl deemed suspicious and ugly. Who, despite knowing some things children would ideally never learn, was still sheltered in other ways. She had never haggled on the market or dealt with condescending shopkeepers or distrustful innkeepers or rude, demanding boys (but thankfully, she knew how to run from angry parents and unreasonable police when she reacted appropriately).

And she certainly didn't know how to make a fire, or sew and repair her clothes and boots, or wash her things in frigid rivers, or deal with rocks getting in her supplies for sleeping, or having to plea and promise various physical tasks to be given shelter at someone's house, and once even disguise herself as a man to board a ship.

But she would learn. And perhaps one day she would laugh about it as she retold her story to an apprentice... or perhaps she would lie through her teeth and say that every four year old was so capable in her time.

* * *

''Are you the one?'' The travelling maiden (who is now too old to be called a girl, and left her old way of earning money behind, not so much out of newfound respect for law as for pesky consideration of other's circumstances, and also fact that solitary woman on road was unlikely to escape a mob or merchant caravan if she took their money) asks, and then avoids wincing and biting down on her tongue. Her words had come out hurried and sharp, like sparrows attacked by cat, accusations and panic dredging them up, when they were meant to be reassuring. And she wanted to the comfort girl, really, only her voice could not find a way to turn itself warm and gentle, no matter how hard she tried.

''I, yes. That's me.'' The girl apologizes, and starts to bow before the travelling maiden catches her hand and pulls her into the cart. The girl’s voice sounds scratchy and unpleasant, as if it is filled with chalk and dust. It may be thirst or misuse, but the travelling maiden knows it’s a ploy, designed to grate on the ears as much as possible. The girl’s hair is cropped short, unevenly, and the tips of it seem to be burned, and the traveling maiden is pretty sure there is some pig fat mixed with the charcoal rubbed in it. The less said of the rags she wears, the better.

And yet, if the traveling maiden is careful, if she squints right and looks past grime and grayish pallor and sunburns and dirty teeth, she realizes there is beauty there. A swanlike neck meant to wear diamonds, a jaw that could cut glass, and dimples that you could melt for. She suspects that the girl's natural voice is actually pleasant enough to bind birds to her will. She could stun a tsar if she cleaned up a bit, for she was that sort of girl. The girl who shone no matter how much her stepmother tried to cover her in dirt and rawness, girl who would be noticed even if she hid everything, including those violet eyes.

''My stepsisters...'' She says, and turns around to gaze at land that surrounds her. The dry, cracked earth and yellow grass like tobacco-stained moustaches rising from the ground in irregular, pathetic clumps, like fur on mangy dog. The sky above them is clear, yet devoid of menacing storm clouds and mocking crows. But who might be certain in a land like this, where death has laid siege for generations upon generations, where empires crumbled as its people fed feeble crops with their own blood.

''They will be all right. They will join you soon. Who knows?'' And, she feels, the girl believes her, because the travelling maiden is a child of robbers and conmen and lies slide off her tongue as if it is covered in butter. And because the other option is too terrible to consider. The other village's girl had her hair wholly shaved off, and her nails were atrocious, yet still she was Chosen. The birds came for her at midnight, and when dawn rolled in she had a thick braid woven with silk and pearls, and brocade gloves embroidered with gold and silver.

''Just family. And there is nothing to track me down, I made sure of it. I chopped up my bed and burned everything. My childhood dolls, every hair on my comb...'' The girl, whose name she must not know, shakes as she steps through the cart and hides under dirty, smelly hides (positioned so that poor the girl won't suffocate, though she will have to bathe for three weeks to get filth and stench off her skin). Yet her eyes are dry and not even a little bit red. She carries herself as older, yet can't be more than nineteen.

The travelling maiden isn't sentimental creature, but she has heart (unlike some) and it isn't made of stone, no matter how much she sometimes wishes it were so. A hot rage builds up inside her, as if instead of blood all she has is boiling tea water - that dark and bitter kind doctors give you that you aren't allowed to spit out no matter how much you choke on taste She grips reins of donkey pulling her cart so tight they drive in her palms, rope itching and forming white lines across her skin. She wants to turn back and drive all way to that cursed palace, filled with pale gold and the bones of girls through ages long gone by, whose names are all lost along with the memory of their eyes and the sound of their voices. Throats bleeding as they sang for the sake of the insatiable monster inside. She wants to take her guns and her knives and give him what he deserves, break him in tiny pieces and scatter him to carrions and then bury all his victims and watch as green finally returns to land...

But she can't. That isn't the way these things go, at least not in this land where death has laid slow and steady siege upon very ground and rivers, hoping to draw out it's ruler by sheer boredom of a world turned in dust. Things like that worm cannot die of iron and fire, cannot die at all, except by following rules. And the rules state that he will reign for age upon age, and be the monster that will shake world, and then a hero will come and bring his end and all will be well. And the travelling maiden, with her sharp tongue and plain face and selfishness, afraid, confused at heart, isn't that hero. She cannot outshine Morning Star and retrieve hope, or convince thee story to grant her victory. She has to be content with what she can do, find the girls whom the legend might seek out and carry them beyond its reach. And they will never again hear their homeland's language or see their brother's face or be present at their mother's funeral, but they will live their own lives, and be buried with dignity. That is all she can do, and that is what must be enough.

And still she makes oath, that if it happens within her lifetime, she will seek out Koschei's killer and buy them a beer or two.

* * *

If you read a lot, or travel enough to happen upon the borders of a story more than once (for stories are like natural disasters, or sudden, seemingly unexplainable irregular migration of birds. Not common thing by any means, but not exquisitely rare- always somewhere one was unfolding, even if it was but a minor urban legend), you would notice that so many stories are about royalty. True, there are so many about brave and smart and lucky farm children, but most of them marry into royalty, or end up becoming a folktale that isn't world famous.

Somebody smarter than her might be able to explain it better. 

Some folklorist might say that it is because stories are meant to be impossible and provide hope, so they end up with the very best life children might imagine, which is of course a big house, other people to do your chores, money to bathe in, pretty clothes, access to the best doctors and no supreme human authority to order your life around. 

Royalty on the other hand might claim that it is because they are all very moral and filled with virtues of all kinds, and thus is only right for people to hold them up as examples, especially when some of those stories (especially the monster slaying ones) were likely based on truth. 

The travelling maiden herself thought that it was because most royals were lazy, useless, stuck up and greedy, not to mention lacking in common sense. Thus prone to making enemies with all sorts of witches and dragons and what not, who are usually very antisocial and easily offended beings. It was an opinion she deeply held to, having often been on the receiving end of such treatment from the rich and stuck-up. So often that, if she had magic powers, she would have definitely cursed them for thirteen generations. Thus, she developed a certain aversion to crowned heads, seeing only one person in whole world worthy of being called a princess, and this opinion she would hold till her last dying breath.

Once, however, she was almost forced to reconsider.

The kingdom she was in was small and unremarkable, tucked in between grey rocks mostly made of flint and the churning sea. A land of salt and wind. It' s children learned the ebb and flow of the tides and the phases of moon and the placement of stars alongside numbers and letters. Once a week the cold and brittle rain would strike down houses and those dumb enough to be outside, like army intent on complete annihilation of its enemy. People lived off trade and fishing and most of all, gossip.

It was nice place (though every place could be nice if you adjusted your perspective). It was homely and calm, a good place for a vacation, or to make a life if you were interested in settling down. It was a bit chilly, but not as cold as her own homeland. The rains took time to get used to, but the salmon they served was magnificent, so it all evened out in the end. All in all, the traveling maiden had spent three nice weeks laying off adventures and was ready to leave without watching the king's announcement.

Once you saw one, you saw them all. The travelling maiden was here to walk down the beaches in the almost sunny mornings, learn helpful phrases, hear local superstitions, and tasting their beer. She was not here to find out who the king would marry. Apparently he was two-timing two girls, a local noble and a foreign princess, and that was obviously causing the quite high tensions, if rumors were to be believed. She wasn't sure, she tuned out after the first few words, and her grasp of the language was shaky enough. If anybody needed proof kings were men, just as sleazy and fickle as rest, there it was.

She was in fact, just getting ready to go back to the road when it was time to hear king's decision. She had no intention of staying, because otherwise it would be too late to safely travel the narrow, serpentine roads. Unfortunately, it seemed she was in the minority, and so she couldn't move more than a few steps through streets, so thick was mob. She had no choice but to be present for king's declaration.

He was fine looking young man, if bit boring and bland for her tastes, kind of knock-off store average (but then, her tastes ran in rather different direction, so perhaps she wasn't the best judge). The woman at his right wasn't even that sort of beautiful, but she wasn't ugly either. Were it not for the simple but tasteful, expensive clothing she wore, she would have turned no heads in streets at all (she did have rather keen gray eyes, however). But the woman on the left... the whole street gasped, and travelling maiden did so alongside them.

She was beautiful. The kind of beauty the travelling maiden had glimpsed before, standing at borders of stories, and had been enchanted by every time. It was the type of beauty that made artists kill themselves when they failed to capture it in oil or marble, beauty bestowed by some divine providence upon people of world like a single star in the darkness, natural and inherent, defining and constricting to it's bearer as swimming to fish. The type of beauty that went down in history, that got you killed, that made your beloved ones unable to part from your body, not eating or sleeping, but weeping as they clutched it, unable to let go until they were dragged away. The type of beauty that shone in single moments and be treasured in bittersweet memory for rest of the other's days, extinguished the moment it reached its peak.

And yet, there she stood. She was tall, taller than any of the men or woman present by at least two heads, standing straight, subdued and proud like an ancient tree, her face as rosy and round as blooming flower buds in the most well-tended gardens, her hair a thick, sweeping curtain of gold from her crown to her knees, her eyes as green as the most precious apple. And she smiled, showing her pearly teeth, and it was as beautiful as laying underneath a tree in the summer, smelling the orchards on the breeze as the dawn's light caressed your face.

They held hands. Both of the women held king's hands, and had the same crown on their heads. And the women looked at each other, with a secret, fond smile, and perhaps only the travelling maiden noticed that the king and the tall queen wore same cloaks, same color as the second queen's dress, who alongside king shared brooch in shape of a golden leaf. They said something, and she didn't know what those words were but she understood them. How could she not, when love emanated from them like warmth from red-hot iron shoes? And perhaps it was the power of those words, or the power of king's order, or the sharp gaze of second queen, or the heartrending smile of golden wife, but nobody was outraged or complaining. They joined her in cheering and singing until they cried. The travelling maiden was glad she stayed.

Only for the sake of the food at the festival that followed, of course.

* * *

Sometimes on her travels, she picked up companions.

They were not sort of companions tied together by bonds of fire and nettle and iron that dragons couldn't shatter, comrades through thick and thin until the end of world, sworn brothers and sisters who shared a covenant of blood. They were people who she came across in her travels, who were convenient or pleasant to share the road or an inn beside. She would not be at all against meeting them again, but neither would she mourn their partings, no more than she would morn the wilting of a particular wildflower, or dispersion of a funnily-shaped cloud.

Her first rule of those short lived friendships was that she never asked about the past. Partially because she wasn't interested in sob stories, and partially because that was the least they deserved - the same courtesy she was granted. For she had travelled with beggars and soldiers and bandits and milkmaids, as common as pebbles, and yet more often fate led her to people who were like her.

People who lived on the borders of stories, who would never be heroes or villains (victims or monsters), who dwelled in kingdoms whose heirs were cursed, and who slept in woods where a big bad wolf was still a pup. People who stood on the distant edges and watched as fog rolled over the land from the mountains it couldn't reach, and carried on stories of ensorcelled castles and palaces holding ghosts and ogres and treasures. People who had once been minions, or showed the way to the hero. Who would be forgotten by storytellers, yet they themselves could not forget that single moment of bravery, wisdom or kindness, which stood out to them like a diamond among coal, forged by scorching misery and fright from an ordinary mortal coil into something meant to be a symbol, a lesson, an aspiration, which remained lodged in their heart like arrow of glass. It bid them to be better, to seek out magic and marvel, to remember and witness and spread the story.

Akiko was one of them. A girl who could walk down the road through cruel snow and molten sunlight, for miles and days with barely four hours of rest. She could live like a queen simply off her dancing. And though not a great talent by any stretch, she could play music and sing well enough to get a tavern going, and had a gentle but firm way of speaking that with time could convince you you had misremembered your own name. A face pretty enough that shopkeepers treated her bit better than most, but not enough that anybody would remember her after a certain passage of time. A girl who found herself at home among cursed peasants like grass among the moorland.

''I am sorry. I haven't been honest with you.'' She says one night, as the traveling maiden was setting up the tent. She is surprised by how Akiko's voice strikes her, like a wound from dull knife. She turns to her, nail held tightly in hand. Maybe she is overreacting, but with her luck and life, those words tend to be followed by a sword.

''You see, I am at a quest.'' And then the traveling maiden has to sit down, because **that** feels like bullet in her lungs, and probably she would need to say something, but she has no idea what to feel. The giddy gratitude that she will again be part of a story, maybe more than a random encounter? The envy, slithering like snake, because _why not me_? Or wariness, because a quest demands toil and sacrifice, and she isn't sure she is able to give that, even for herself.

''It isn't traditional, not really, and I am not sure if it was ever done before, and I am not much of a hero... but I am trying to find a way to break a curse. A curse that has been with me basically my whole life, so long it is as much a part of me as my blood or marrow, a compulsion of sorts. And I am doing it for _her_ sake.'' The traveling maiden isn't surprised by that. She had suspected for long while, and she knows that so did Akiko, knowing without words, with glance that said _we are same_ , they, girls who were ugly because they didn't have blue eyes, who would never have suitors.

''My family, well they aren't blood family, I think at least, and I was adult when I met them, but they are like me, and they don't understand it. I was, hurt by it, and angry, yet I can't hate them or be bitter, because I was same years ago. It was, it was way of the life, all games and cons, we deceived to get food, me and my sisters, and we just wanted to live and live pleasurably.

“And we did.

“We did it, and we bought it by the lives of those unfortunate enough to cross us. I didn't care, and honestly I still can't garner enough sympathy, can't make my heart care. But I can't do it anymore. Because I met _her_ , and she would never allow such a thing. She believed in good, you see, and she made me want to believe too. And at first I thought I will just play around with her, and then be done with her pretty voice and blithe optimism.'' Akiko knows she won't be judged. Not when they are same, reflections of each other, they, broken hungry girls deemed wicked by all but one soul that shone as brilliant as the stars themselves.

''And I was, but not how I thought I would be. She had her own path to walk, and I let her walk away, even as I felt I might dehydrate from the tears I spilled. And I thought I would be content, that I could forget it, except my forest and cave seemed so small. I thought that if I could never again meet my Yua, I could meet people like her, or at least shadows of her, and see why she loved the world so much. And I could become human like her, who didn't lie or entangle. Somebody who didn't harm others, and I left without saying goodbye... Thank you, thank you, thank you.'' And they won't speak of it in morning, or when they separate, but in this moment the traveling maiden embraces her, holds her tightly to chest near the fire as Akiko laughs and spills a tear. And when they go their own ways, gives her a spyglass sold to the traveling maiden by a witch for favors that should be left unnamed.

She looked through it, when Akiko slept, for she was wary and that curse sounded as if it demanded lives and blood, and she had already been burned once, when she shared bread, unaware, with manmade vampire, and the glass revealed secrets and compulsions, and saw what laid underneath Akiko's illusion, spun as tight and complex as any web.

Eight eyes as perfectly round as coins. Eight legs as sharp as spears, brown as bare branches, with stripes yellow as autumn's leaves. The beginning of an abdomen, pale and white like eggshells. Skin and chitin meld into one, and from her mouth protruded a mandibled, fierce and bloody. The kimono, as pink as young flesh, embroidered with golden flowers. Diamond hairpins in the form of butterflies, red as blood. And magic, thrumming inside, alongside blood and silk.

What horrible, sad desire, to cast off your skin. How horrible, that she understands it too.

* * *

She had made peace with this, she convinced herself.

She would never again see Gerda, and she was okay with it. Gerda was miracle in a flash, a brief taste of wonder and kindness unlike any, meant to dwell among constellations, not among boring, ordinary mud. The traveling maiden was undeserving of her, and that short time she knew her was a blessing she could never repay, for there was nothing she had worthy of Gerda's grace.

She had met pretty girls, brave girls, resourceful girls, sweet girls, smart girls, and many other types on her journeys, and many of them were more of those qualities at once, and great in their own ways. And yet it would be cruel to approach them, even ones who showed interest, for she would always be unfaithful to them. Gerda sat in her heart and memory as unmoving as the mountains, and only when the sky shattered and the sea evaporated and the world was remade would she let go of her.

Were she an artist, she could have made some use of that longing, raised statues and painted the walls of churches in her honor. But as her hands were not meant for such fine work, she could not help but accept that one day she would join the spinsters all over world who sat on docks and waited for sailors that left decades ago Become a sister in spirit with all the poor old men who died in their cottages thinking of the girls they never had the courage to invite to a dance....

''There you are! I knew I would find you!'' And then the mountain was no longer a shadow on the horizon, but its peak stands beneath her feet. Her breath is knocked out of her lungs as Gerda practically jumps onto her, like rabbit on a sugar rush, wrapping her thick arms around traveling maiden's waist and chest so hard she is sure some of her bones crack. Her face glowing as a campfire, while behind her a white haired boy (or, more likely, a nightmare of taiga forced into a vague humanoid shape). On whom her eyes can't really focus and who makes her blood turn chill and her heart shake with the _wrongness_ of old, old magic sliding off him like water off scales of a carp. He watches with a soft smile that shines like sunlight reflected off snowmelt.

''You grew so much! And you cut your hair! It suits you so much. You look magnificent.'' And then her cheeks are burning because maybe her brain was running off with fantasies again. But she could only slowly nod because she was almost certain there was something in Gerda's voice that _absolutely_ wasn't proper and that a pure and chaste and naive sweet girl who regularly prayed had no right to know.

And she won't complain, she likes it, but she has no idea how they went from talking in middle of a random woods, to standing in front of the door of Gerda's apartment, holding hands and waiting to be introduced to her grandmother. Her heart was beating and something inside her brain screamed and Gerda's touch made her explode, and for some reason she thought of swallows and migration patterns and familiar areas...

And it was just a normal tiny apartment with a sweet mundane old woman and a kind and subtly cheeky Gerda, and it was better than any of her dreams.

* * *

This is what a home truly is, she realizes one spring, while riding under the starlit sky, going from a visit to her mother back to Gerda.

Going back, as long as Gerda would have her.

This was home, the open skies above and the wide meadow around her, the warm hearth and homely apartment she slept in so many times now. The cool and fresh smell of evening breeze, with undercurrent of wildflowers and grass, the scent of smoked ham and hearty soups grandmothers prepared for them. It meant being able to go over whole world, to run over mountains and ride through deserts and find a way through snow, and never lose sight of that one apartment, over which her whole world revolved now and which became her standard for determining her way. It was the core of her world, the North Star of her life.

This was home. Gerda never asking when she would come back, only telling her to take care as she put her coat on, and awaiting her at the door with mug of hot tea and wonderful meat pie. It meant that grandmothers saw her as one of their own, and fussed over her newest haircut (which wasn't result of her experimenting with the newest style as she told them, but a rather quite lucky outcome considering the other option, not that she was sure if they believed her) and knitted her scarves and sweaters. It meant there were shops all over the earth where she was an honored customer, and children who never met each other, scattered across kingdoms, calling her Auntie. It meant that there were friends she always visited when road took her to their countryside and castle, and sitting down with her mother for drink, to lavish gifts and stories upon her. It meant packs of wolves and foxes, flocks of eagles and doves that called out to her in passing, and a wave from a man with smile like sunlight and eyes like the frost of a blizzard in the distance refused to trouble her.

It meant that if someday, Gerda decided she was sick of that city, that she wanted a change of scenery, if that same wanderlust that gave wings to her travelling maiden possessed her, she would tell her, by letter or birds or her own voice, and the travelling maiden would know where she was, would unravel and put back together her entire world and find her way back to Gerda. Even if she was never told where she went (but Gerda would always say, just as travelling maiden did) and so perhaps someday she would open her eyes and find that Gerda decided to come and get her first.

Perhaps someday they would settle down, as old grannies full of stories themselves, if only because travelling when your ears are as bad as if elephant stepped on them and your glasses are as thick as the bottom of a rum bottle, when your fingers are slow and bones fragile, when everybody either babies or disrespects you and money is tight is annoying (not that they couldn't have pulled it off). It could be the whole world, any place could be home as long as they were together, and perhaps it would be Gerda's grandmother's apartment, for the sake of sentimentality, but it could be any other house, as long as there was wide meadow or street to walk through in the evenings. And had a place for roses to grow.

It was never a fairy tale, her life. Fairy tales ended with happily ever after, demanding that you remain content and satisfied, never changing or exploring or reaching for more or better or just something different out of curiosity. As if the most magnificent meal in world didn't make you retch after the twentieth time in month. It was an ending, and while an end had to come for all things of flesh and dreams, the travelling maiden couldn't see any point in desiring or thinking it over.

They would put it off as far away as they could, and go and learn and enjoy, and fill up space in between with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Original plan for this story was to have robber girl encounter all of characters from original story, including Devil and Snow Queen, and then work in crossover with every other story my requester listed ( besides snow queen, there were 7 others, I worked in 3), plus some other stories containing robbers, like robber bridegroom for example, and was meant to have three sections- prologue of sorts with meeting Gerda, adventures, and life together.  
> Prologue ended up being over ten thousand words long, and I thought that would be too much, and scrapped it and rewrote this one. It was really helpful for my state and school actually, as it helped me get back in writing and have something pleasant to do and stick to schedules.  
> So thank you and again I hope you liked it.


End file.
